


the bridge between us

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, BDSM, Belting, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Frottage, Fuck Buddies to Lovers, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of past self-harm, No Beast AU, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Tenderness, Top Drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 19:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20680739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: They’re not labeling it, but Eliot buys a vest that needs to be laced up at the back, thinkingQuentin can help me with thiswithout a second thought. They’re not labeling it, but Quentin sleeps in his room sometimes even when they don’t fuck, if his brain is particularly loud or he’s feeling especially lonely. Eliot knows the schedule of Q’s father’s chemo appointments, because Quentin always comes back a bit of a mess, a little in need of giving up control of simple things like ‘where do I find food today’or ‘what shirt should I wear’to someone else. And maybe you could say that’s just being a good Dom, but...Eliot’s Dommed for boys before. He’s done it with a kind of regularity once or twice, even. It was nothing like this, groggy morning coffee cups and lunch between classes, Quentin quiet and boneless with his head in Eliot’s lap while he and Margo gossip. This was something new. Maybe it didn’t have a label, but it felt like something edging up towards– a relationship?





	the bridge between us

**Author's Note:**

> This fic technically follows [paint it red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321837), but I’m not listing it as a sequel because I don’t think it needs to be read as one. Serious, incredible thank yous have to be given to both [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) and celestialskiff. They both did a big chunk of idea bouncing and beta reading, and I appreciate it so much.
> 
> Content note: please pay attention to the anxiety attack and top drop tags. I don’t want to hurt anyone. More details in endnotes.

It was a surprise to no one who knew him and knew _anything_ about kink that Quentin took to submission like a house on fire. What was surprising, at least to Eliot, was that Quentin seemed to be taking to _Eliot_ just as readily. 

Like, they fuck, okay? They fuck _a lot_. But even when they weren’t actively fucking, Quentin seemed to just want to be around him. Oh, he wasn’t clingy or codependent about it, it never felt _suffocating_. But if there was a free space next to Eliot on the couch, Quentin would take it. He’d gravitate to Eliot in a crowd, happy to exist in Eliot’s orbit while his attention was elsewhere, making drinks or chatting. They ate meals together, sometimes, when Q wasn’t away with Julia in the library or Eliot wasn’t swept up in the act of ennui. 

So, they’re not– labeling it. But they’re not sleeping with other people, either. There’d been a conversation about that, regarding condom use and Quentin almost literally begging to be fucked bare. So. Condoms were an option for easy clean up but not necessary, and they don’t fuck other people. The one exception to that is Margo, because Eliot could not and would not swear off of her forever, and Quentin– had been shockingly fine with that. Fine enough for Eliot to wonder how long it would be before he finds himself balls-deep in Quentin while Margo rides his face.

It was an idle thought, and not one that bothered him in the slightest. 

They’re not labeling it, but Eliot buys a vest that needs to be laced up at the back, thinking _Quentin can help me with this_ without a second thought. They’re not labeling it, but Quentin sleeps in his room sometimes even when they don’t fuck, if his brain is particularly loud or he’s feeling especially lonely. Eliot knows the schedule of Q’s father’s chemo appointments, because Quentin always comes back a bit of a mess, a little in need of giving up control of simple things like ‘_where do I find food today’_ or ‘_what shirt should I wear’_ to someone else. And maybe you could say that’s just being a good Dom, but...

Eliot’s Dommed for boys before. He’s done it with a kind of regularity once or twice, even. It was nothing like this, groggy morning coffee cups and lunch between classes, Quentin quiet and boneless with his head in Eliot’s lap while he and Margo gossip. This was something new. Maybe it didn’t have a label, but it felt like something edging up towards– a relationship?

It leads to afternoons like this, where Eliot has done all the actual studying he’s going to even attempt today, but Quentin’s stressed and worried over an assignment, and trying to drag him away from it will only create more stress and worry in the long run. It’s a delicate act, figuring out when Quentin needs to be distracted and when he needs to work through a problem, but Eliot thinks he’s getting there. The fact that this assignment is actually due tomorrow and isn’t done is a pretty good clue.

So Quentin’s sitting on the floor in front of Eliot’s bed, books splayed out in a wide circle around him, while Eliot lounges on his stomach on the bed, making the best of the technically-against-school-rules wifi connection one of the physical kids had jury-rigged up. Occasionally, he’ll reach over and slide his fingers through Quentin’s hair, listen to him sigh and stretch his back, push into Eliot’s hand with a soft hum. But mostly Eliot is window-shopping, and Quentin is working, and it’s–

Comfortable.

It’s nice. Whatever this affectionate ease is, Eliot likes it. 

“How do you feel about nipple clamps?” Eliot asks with mild curiosity, scrolling through a webpage idly on his smuggled-in laptop. 

Quentin looks up from his notebook, a blush burning on his cheeks but he squints thoughtfully at Eliot. “Curious,” He hazards, and then in the vernacular of their play: “Haven’t done, would try.”

“I like them,” Eliot says mildly, scrolling through the website. _Oh, those have little hearts as weights, how cute_. 

“On me or on you?” Quentin asks, a little strangled sounding, and Eliot feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Both, darling. Both,” he teases, winking at Quentin just to watch him duck his head, pleased and flushed. “I’ll have to buy new ones, though, I bartered away my last set.”

“What’s it feel like?” Quentin asks, knees drawing up to his chest, and _hmmm_, yes, he is curious. More than idly curious. Eliot bookmarks the page to come back to later. 

“Like you’ve got clamps on your nipples?” he snarks, which earns him an eyeroll. “No, it’s– I mean, it hurts? But you know... that can be good, when you’re worked up for it.”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes softly, and he’s got that intensity to him, that snapped-in focus he always gets when they’re seriously negotiating a scene. Eliot hadn’t meant to be, but he’ll roll with it. 

“It’s a steadier kind of hurt than a lot of things I can do to you,” Eliot muses, thinking back to the last time he got trusted up and clamped up. It’s been a while. He misses it less than he thought he might. “They really fucking hurt coming off, but while they’re on it’s just... Another feeling.”

“Haven’t done, _want_ to try,” Quentin amends, eyes a little hot, and Eliot grins at him, big and dopey the way he never, ever thought he’d let someone subbing for him see. 

“Noted,” he agrees, reaching over to tuck a piece of hair behind Quentin’s ear. Q turns into him, pressing a kiss against Eliot’s wrist, the butterfly-frantic pulse there, and Eliot stalls, drags his thumb over Quentin’s ear. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“I know,” Quentin breathes, eyes hot and mouth hot and– Eliot draws back, because sometimes taking care of Quentin means making him do his homework.

“So get to it,” Eliot says distantly, turning back to his computer, affecting a disinterest he emphatically does not feel. He does flick his eyes over to Quentin, though, catches him staring and winks. Quentin chuffs out a laugh and relaxes, turning back around to face the small field of spell books in front of him. It’s mere minutes before Eliot’s hand is in Quentin’s hair, again, but oh well. Fucking sue him, he’s only human. 

Hours later, with Quentin’s project done and an empty wine bottle on the floor next to the bed, Eliot finds himself on his side with Quentin tucked into the bow of his body, head resting on the dip of his waist. It was perhaps a shameless ploy to get Eliot’s hand in his hair, but it was absolutely working, and Eliot- likes it. Likes having him close, easy and relaxed and a little tipsy. 

“Talk to me about pain,” Eliot murmurs, because he’s been thinking about nipple clamps and floggers for hours and he wants- he wants to _know_ Quentin. Not just see things about him, but understand them. “It seems like it’s more than just a thing your body likes. You clocked right in to it, earlier.”

“I do like it. I mean- like you said right, once you’re worked up enough, it’s just more sensation.”

“Hmm,” Eliot hums, getting himself a handful of Quentin’s hair and tugging sharply, just to watch his eyes flutter shut. “It’s more than that, though.”

“Yeah- I. It’s grounding? It gets me out of my head, I guess.” Quentin gives a little shrug, looking down into the wine glass in his hand. “I sometimes- like if I’m super panicky, being present in my body is like, helpful, right? Or if everything’s just grey as shit and I’m kind of spaced out, getting back in my body helps. My therapist used to give me like... breathing exercises but-”

“That sounds,” Eliot starts, delicately. “-like the kind of logic that leads to self-harm.”

Quentin’s silent for a beat, and another, and Eliot’s stomach turns uneasily. “Well, I don’t– really do that, anymore. And I trust you not to hurt me in a way that’s going to– actually hurt me. I don’t trust me to do that, but I trust you.”

Eliot swallows down the prickles of fear, grabs on to his calm _I’m-a-good-Dom-I-know-what-I’m-doing_ facade and wields it. “I’m glad you trust me. I want you too. If it’s ever not enough, I know a _‘no secret cutting’_ potion I could teach you which renders you unable to hurt your own body.”

Quentin rolls his head over towards Eliot, meets his eyes and gives a serious nod. “Okay. I’ll tell you, I promise.”

“Good,” Eliot sighs, stroking his fingers softly through Quentin’s hair.

“I’ve been worried about telling you that,” Quentin admits, melting back into the curve of Eliot’s body. “I figured you’d ask sooner or later, but– I was scared you’d want to stop– that you wouldn’t want to do it anymore.”

Like there was _anything_ that could make Eliot stop wanting this. This particular component of Quentin’s sexual make-up might be rooted in some dark places, but the reality was, Eliot could get him into subspace without hurting him at all. Bind his hands to the headboard and tell him to be absolutely silent while you suck his cock, and Quentin will check out as thoroughly as he would if you spanked him. And Quentin _after_ subspace was the happiest, healthiest Eliot’s ever seen him. Some people subbed just to get off, but who was Eliot to judge Quentin if he subbed to cope. It just meant Eliot had to look out for pain edging wrong in his brain, but he already did that anyway. At least this was something he could do to _help_, as Quentin fights this battle with his own brain. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Eliot murmurs, rubbing the pad of his thumb into Quentin’s temple, watches his eyes flutter shut with a sigh.

“It’s rotten work,” Quentin intones, and Eliot feels affection swell beneath his skin.

“Not to me,” Eliot recites, with more feeling than his acting professors could have ever dragged out of him. “Not if it’s you.”

“You know Euripides?”

“Yes, Quentin, sometimes I do know things,” Eliot sighs in exasperation. “I did actually manage to achieve a bachelor's degree, you know.”

Quentin snickers, rolling his head a little in the way he does when he’s tipsy, then settles again to give Eliot a curious look. “Does it bother you? Hurting me?”

“Bother me?” Eliot repeats, a little confused, because well. He’s very clearly gotten off every time they’ve done any kind of pain play. But sometimes Quentin needs reassurance, and maybe this is just how he needs to ask. “It doesn’t bother me at all, baby boy. I’ve told you, I like what you like. I really honestly do. Getting my partners off gets me off. It’s part of why I can switch more easily than you could, I think.”

Humming curiously, Quentin rolls over, so he’s facing Eliot more fully, ear resting on the dip of Eliot’s waist. “You’ve done it the other way around, too, right?” At Eliot’s agreeing hum, Quentin reaches out, hooks their fingers together. “Do you like– one more than the other?”

“I like both,” Eliot muses, giving it some actual thought. “I lock into the top headspace easier. I _can_ get into subspace, but I need to be pushed really hard. I have to be in a very specific mood to want that, and– I haven’t been, for a while.”

The ‘_since I met you’_ goes unsaid. 

“Are they different? Like– how you feel with me, versus... how I feel?”

“You’re curious tonight,” Eliot teases, but it’s not a complaint. It’s nice, frankly, to talk so openly about this. They’ve had to do a lot of work to get Q to the place where he can talk this freely about sex, even if he can only manage it with Eliot. It’s nice to enjoy the pay off. “It is different, but I don’t think I sub the way you do anyway. Letting go is harder for me. I get very focused, either way. But when I’m subbing, I just focus in on– whatever rules I’ve been given. Whatever I’m supposed to be doing. I get to think about that and only that. When I’m in charge, I lock in on taking care of you, giving you want you need. Whatever you need. Even pain.”

“That’s not how it is for me,” Quentin says softly, as Eliot goes back to petting his hair. “It’s like it melts my brain right out of me. Things get _quiet_. Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get my brain to be quiet?”

“Something like 24 years?” Eliot guesses, which makes Q giggle again, nuzzle his face against Eliot’s stomach.

“And you like it?” Quentin asks, again, quiet like he really does need reassurance in this.

“Yes, little Q, I like it. I like the sounds you make, and the way you try so hard for me. I like how much you trust me. I will hurt you any time you ask,” He concludes, and Quentin grins at him like that’s the most romantic sentiment Eliot could possibly have expressed, not a kind of worrying sentence taken out of context. “I won’t make you bleed, though. That’s a hard limit for me.”

“Oh,” Quentin blinks, and then scrunches up his face in thought. “That’s come up before, right? You’ve said that before.”

“Yes,” Eliot agrees, tugging sharply on Quentin’s hair, just to watch him shiver. “It’s pretty much my only hard limit.”

“Okay,” Quentin mutters, and Eliot can see the curiosity there, can tell he wants to know why. But Quentin’s learned his kink etiquette from Eliot, and Eliot never pushes the ‘why’ on boundaries, just... takes them as a line in the sand, and treats them as such. 

For just a fraction of second, a heart-beat moment, memory flashes in front of Eliot’s eyes, the spray of red blood across a yellow school bus. Over as fast, but it leaves Eliot feeling like his skin is crawling, and he nudges Q gently with his knee until he moves enough that Eliot can sit up. Put his hands on his knees and remember to breathe.

“El?” Quentin asks, concerned, shuffling forward on the bed. It makes Eliot smile, that nickname, the familiarity in it. 

He puts memory aside, shoves it away and buries it deep where he doesn’t have to look at it. “Got a little woozy,” Eliot deflects, gesturing with his empty wine glass. Like two glasses of wine would be enough to get him anything more than lightly buzzed anymore. 

“Do you need some water?” Quentin offers, concerned and attentive, and really just... _so fucking perfect_, how did Eliot even–

“No, I’m okay, baby,” he sighs, twisting around until he’s facing Quentin, can reach out and cup his cheek. “We don’t play when we drink, but I really want to kiss you, is that–”

“Kiss me,” Quentin interrupts, tilting his face forward in offering. It makes Eliot smile in spite of himself, the swell of fondness tugging desperately in his gut. 

Well, there wasn’t much better distraction to be found than Quentin’s kisses. They don’t play if they’re drinking, Eliot holds really firmly to that rule. It doesn’t mean they can’t _fuck_ if they’re drunk, or high, or one of them just did a very complicated bit of cooperative magic which left them feeling like they have extra nerves all over their body. God bless meta-composition best friends. Two glasses of red wine barely counts, definitely isn’t going to stop Eliot from pulling Quentin into his lap and collapsing back against the headboard. 

And okay, the thing is–

The thing is, even if they’re not playing, Quentin goes where Eliot puts him, easily, thoughtlessly. Let’s Eliot tug him into his lap, _melts_ into him as they kiss. Little sweet, hungry kisses, as they get settled, turning deep and needy as Eliot gets his hands up under Quentin’s shirt, petting the soft skin of his lower back. _Fuck_, but he loves this. Kissing was more often than not the means to an end for Eliot before this, but Quentin _loves_ being kissed. Pet him softly and make out with him for a while, and Quentin just liquified, needy and _open_. 

“Want you,” Eliot murmurs against Quentin’s lips, because it’s true, _it’s true_, it’s never not true. Quentin makes a happy, hungry little sound, hips working under Eliot’s hands as he grinds his dick against Eliot’s. Layers of fabric between them and Eliot still feels like a raw nerve, sensitive and exposed. 

Quentin pulls back, flushed and a little out of breath, his lips red with kissing. Eliot hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, and he’s got almost two full days of beard growth scratching his boy’s pretty pale skin all to hell. Jesus, Quentin’s lips are bright red. Thoughtlessly, he reaches up to touch them. But Q is Q, and decides that fingertip kisses are too blase and he should deepthroat Eliot’s fingers instead.

“_Mother of god,_” Eliot groans out, Quentin’s hot sweet wet mouth sliding down his index and middle fingers until his lips hit the rings there. Quentin’s teeth closes ever so slightly on his fingers, a tease more than a threat, but it makes a sharp pang of excitement spring through Eliot’s body. “Fuck, little Q.”

Quentin wiggles his eyebrows in just the dorkiest way possible, suggestive and teasing, then pulls off with a slurp. Which objectively should be more unsettling that it is arousing but it absolutely isn’t. His fluttery hands land on Eliot’s chest as he settles back on his heels, petting over the fine material of his shirt. Tie and vest abandoned hours ago, Eliot’s feels oddly armorless even mostly dressed. Getting naked with Quentin always feels more like baring himself that it ever has with anyone before, enough that sometimes when they’re playing he doesn’t even manage it. It helps that Quentin likes him dressed, likes him buttoned up and in control. But they’re not playing now, and Eliot wants skin. 

“Off,” he murmurs, tugging lightly at Quentin’s thin sweater, and he nods, going to tug it up. He gets a little stuck in it, because of course he does, but Eliot’s there to help him. “What would you do with without me, baby boy,” Eliot teases, fond and soft, affectionate and tender as he gets the fabric over Q’s head.

“Have a lot less sex, that’s for sure,” Quentin returns, bratty, such a brat, and they’re not playing because they were drinking but that doesn’t mean Eliot doesn’t _want_ to smack his ass for it. It just means he’s not going to.

“You’re such a brat,” Eliot cooes instead, petting his hand along Quentin’s sides, all that bare naked skin. 

“Mmmhm,” Quentin hums in agreement, a mischievous little smile on his face, then he’s diving forward, mouth on Eliot’s neck as his fingers attack the buttons on Eliot’s shirt. Eliot tries to help but their fingers get all tangled up, so he gives up with a laugh, content to lounge back against the headboard with a half-naked boy in his lap. 

_How are you so perfect for me? _God, he couldn’t have made a better man if he tried, not ever, everything about Quentin so much better for the fact that he is helplessly himself. Unable to be anything else. He sits back with a satisfied little smile once he gets Eliot’s buttons un-done, pushing the panels of his shirt wide so he can drag his fingers down Eliot’s sternum, scratch through the hair there.

Then Quentin’s leading forward, dragging his lips and tongue down Eliot’s chest. Eliot sighs, sinks his fingers into Quentin’s hair, arching a little under his mouth as his lips find a nipple. Pleasantly sensitive, Eliot holds him there, and Quentin takes the cue, closes his lips and suckling. Then he bites, a little unexpected burst of pain that flares through Eliot hot and bright, and he gasps, fingers tightening in Quentin’s hair. 

“_Fuck_,” he breathes out, shuddering as Quentin moves a little higher up on his pec and bites again, harder this time. It _hurts_, and Eliot suddenly feels too hot for his skin, wants to put Quentin’s wicked little mouth exactly where he needs it and hold him there. 

“You like it when it hurts?” Quentin mutters, eyes hot and mouth hot and tongue hot as he drags it down Eliot’s chest. 

“I–” Eliot swallows, feeling a little wrong-footed for the first time. “Yeah? But we’re not– we were drinking.”

“Not playing,” Quentin agrees, nuzzling his nose into Eliot’s pec. “You’re not the boss of me.” A valiant effort, except he still sounds like the brattiest, neediest little sub Eliot’s ever had the pleasure to dick down. 

“Oh, baby boy, I kind of think I am,” He murmurs, feeling too big for his skin, wildly hot with affection. “You wanna be mean to my tits? I’d like that. Let’s get naked first though, okay?”

Watching Quentin wriggle out of his pants is just a thoroughly enjoyable experience, enough that it distracts Eliot a little from shucking his own trousers. But they manage it. Quentin’s in a very particular mood tonight, looking determined as he pushes Eliot back to sitting against the headboard and climbs right back into his lap. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, gently, catching Quentin’s cheek before he can dive back into biting. “You know how to stop if you need?” Because they’re not playing, they’ve been drinking, but he needs to– He kind of _is_ the boss of Q, because this is just how the _are_ together, and Eliot just wants him safe. 

“Petrichor,” Quentin murmurs, eyes clear and bright, then he’s leaning forward to nuzzle their noses together. His breath is hot on Eliot’s lips, settling down against him so their dicks line up, drag together with the soft little movements of his hips. “I’m not gonna check out on you, I promise. We’re not playing.”

“Okay,” Eliot breathes, feeling stretched thin and brittle. He slides his palms all the way up Quentin’s back, holding him close.

“I don’t– El, if you don’t want– I love kissing you, I can just,” Quentin starts and stops, all his teasing confidence shattered because Eliot got stuck in his own brain.

“No, little Q,” Eliot purrs, tightening his arms to hold Q close, take a kiss of his own because he loves the kissing too, then pulls back. “I do like it. Be a little rough with me, c’mon.”

He settles into it, heart beating hard in his chest as Quentin ducks back down, lips a soft pressure against Eliot’s sternum. He’s small enough that when he settles down off his haunches, dick rubbing against Eliot’s, he’s at the perfect height to bury his face against Eliot’s chest. _Built just for me_, Eliot thinks wildly, arching up at a sharp nip from Quentin, on the other side of his chest this time.

Absently, he slides his hands down to Quentin’s ass, getting two good handfuls so he can encourage Quentin to grind on him, drag their dicks together. It feels so good, the pressure of it a slow wave, sweet bright heat in contrast to the sharpness of his mouth. Eliot wasn’t lying when he said he liked it when it hurt. It’s just an odd mash up, with all the possessive, protecting things he feels for Q.

Feels for him all the fucking time.

“You’re so– _fuck_. So good for me,” Eliot breathes, arching sharply as Quentin’s teeth close on his nipple, tugging slightly. It radiates, bright sensation washing through him, and he grips reflexively at Quentin’s ass, making him moan. “Giving me exactly what I told you to, you’re doing so well, baby boy.”

Arousal spikes through him, sharp and hard, fuck, he’s _so hard_. His cock aches where he’s pushing it against Quentin’s, both of them slick with precome and sweat. It’s almost a thoughtless thing, to slide his hands inward, pet the tips of his fingers softly over the pucker of Quentin’s hole. It punches a sound out of him, teeth releasing Eliot’s skin as Quentin collapses, face burying into Eliot’s neck. 

“_El_,” he pants, fingers scrabbling against Eliot’s sides as he ruts helplessly against Eliot, drags his cute little cock against Eliot’s. 

“Fuck, Q,” Eliot gets out, eloquet, fingertips petting lightly over Quentin’s hole, teasing him. He can feel the muscle winking under his touch, eager, hungry, but he’s so not going to last long enough for that, not with the solid perfect drag of Quentin’s body against his cock, not with his sweet boy’s chest dragging against him where he’s all tender and sore.

“Can I– can I come?” Quentin pants, face grinding into Eliot’s neck, hips working desperately against him.

“Thought I wasn’t the boss of you,” Eliot teases, wrapping the arm not currently playing with Quentin’s asshole tight around his waist, keeping him close.

“Oh, fuck you,” Quentin laughs out, pinching a nipple in retaliation which– Eliot groans, his own cock so hard it’s leaking.

“Yeah, baby boy, come all over me. Give it to me,” he breathes, sticking his nose in Quentin’s hair. The hot pulses of it hit his skin as Quentin goes tense and tight around him, sweet little hole clenching down under Eliot’s finger tips. 

There’s a couple hot, hungry seconds of pure need that stretch out around him, covered in Quentin’s warm little body with his come hot on Eliot’s skin, making everything so slick he can barely stand it. Then Eliot’s tipping after him, feeling his heartbeat slam in his needy cock and the sore abused planes of his chest.

Time stretches out between them, collapsed and boneless as they are, sprawled all over each other. Part of Eliot is saying _take care of him_, _it’s your job to_ _take care of him_ but he himself is feeling a little tender and Quentin’s already shift, sitting up on Eliot’s lap. Present, grounded, he hadn’t checked out just like he promised he wouldn’t, and Eliot lets himself relax, just a little. 

It’s another brick in the foundation of trust between them, the bridge of it between Eliot’s helpless heart and Quentin’s sweet openness. _Trust_, that Quentin will be honest, won’t put more on Eliot than he can handle, will respect the rules that exist to keep them both safe.

“Jesus,” Quentin murmurs, eyes on Eliot’s chest. “I kind of– Did a number on you.”

Eliot glances down, to where red patches are already blooming across his chest. He feels a surprised little twist of excitement, at the idea of wearing Quentin’s bites for a couple days. It’s been a while since someone marked him up. 

“That was fun,” Eliot breathes, settling his hands onto Quentin’s hips. “Different.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, still staring at Eliot’s red swollen nipples like he’s never seen them before. Then, like he’s seeking guidance or reassurance: “Um. Good?”

Eliot feels a sharp throb of affection, as sharp as Quentin’s teeth. It feels like the surety of Q’s presence in his life, something tender and new. Like lazy mornings and study sessions, like Quentin and Margo’s nerd babble in the background of Eliot’s hangovers. This sweet, brittle boy, who’s wormed his through the walls Eliot puts up against the world just by being the exact right shape to fit through the cracks. 

“Of course it’s good, it’s us,” Eliot says matter of factly, with a surety that’s almost not a front at all. Quentin seems to buy it anyway, because he smiles a little, just a hint of soft shyness around the edges of it. A dimple crease his cheek on one side, inviting a kisses, and Eliot is only a man after all. Not a particularly strong-willed one, at that. Quentin makes a happy little sound, twisting around until Eliot’s kissing his lips instead of his cheek with a pleased hum. “Mmm. Take a bath with me?”

Q snorts, nipping a little at Eliot’s lip. “Bold of you to assume that we’d be able to fit both your legs and me in a bathtub with you.”

“Oh, honey-love. You’re forgetting one very, very important fact.” Eliot leans forward, until their noses are brushing. “I’m a Magician, darling.”

So maybe they can take care of each other, just this once. Pile into the magically expanded bathtub lush with scented oils, and relax together, bringing each other down. Eliot grabs another bottle of wine on the way in, and thinks about pain with Quentin’s silky skin under his palms. About pleasure. About trust.

About love.

––

Three days later, Eliot wakes up to the sound of his bedroom door clicking open. He's got just enough time to register that his wards haven't been tripped, which means it's either Margo or Q, before possibly the nastiest hangover of his life hits him like a city bus. Well, maybe not of his life. The early undergrad years had been pretty rough, before he'd learned about hydration and his particular order of operations regarding liquors. Tequila Eliot should never follow Rum Eliot. Ever. 

"Fuck," he groans, feeling the room spin a little as he tips his head up to catch a glimpse of Quentin, hair in damp curtains and in fresh clothes. "Jesus Christ on a shit stick."

"Are you going to throw up?" Quentin asks softly, cautiously, pausing near the trash can like he's trying to decide if he should bring it to bed with him. When Eliot doesn't respond, he clearly decides to err on the side of caution and scoots it closer. 

But because he's a good boy, the best boy, Eliot's absolute favorite boy, he also grabs the dark blue potion bottle sitting on the dresser, and tosses it gently onto the bed at Eliot's side. The hangover cure tastes vile, like 4 hours of misery condensed down into one mouthful, but Eliot uncorks it and swallows it down greedily. It does get rid of the headache, and lessen the nausea some, along with the light sensitivity. Not enough though. 

Well, Drunk Eliot had been too dumb to put the potion closer at hand, but at least he’d remembered sunglasses. Or he'd been wearing sunglasses? Eliot doesn't really remember getting to bed last night, honestly. He vaguely remembers watching Quentin abandon the party with some feelings of intense longing and betrayal, and then deciding to create a cocktail that would taste like sunlight feels. He wonders vaguely if he succeeded, if that's why he left himself sunglasses.

"I'm too hungover for my potion to fix it, Q. I think I might die," he groans, sliding the glasses on his face and rolling over onto his side, lounging in the pile of decorative pillows he'd been too drunk to remove. Fuck, he's still wearing his trouser and vest. Drunk Eliot was an idiot. "Dying, Q. Dying."

"I'm stealing your room if you do. I'll enjoy the window seat in your memory," Quentin says glibly, toeing off his shoes because he’s learned better by now than to try to get into Eliot’s bed with them on. Then Eliot has an armful of boy, warm and smelling of books, old paper and leather. So he’d been off with Wicker, then.

"Terrible," Eliot grumbles, burying his nose in Q's wet hair. It smells like citrus. "Hate you. Why do I feel like death?" 

"Well, I left early, but you were mixing substances pretty hard. That herbalism kid was there, you probably took some stuff."

Fucking Hoberman. Eliot needs to stop inviting him to things. He had good drugs but no idea how to create something without side effects, which was just a matter of class, in Eliot's opinion. At least his own magical cocktails mixed fine with other things. "Where did you get off too anyway?" 

"Julia ate a mini pie that made her see time, so I went to take notes for her."

"That doesn't sound like fun."

Quentin's chuckle is soft, but Eliot can feel the vibrations of it through his whole chest. "Well, not for you. But spending a whole night making drinks and small talk doesn't sound like fun to me, either. We may have to admit we're different people in this."

"Nerd," Eliot murmurs, with absolutely no heat whatsoever. 

"Extrovert," Quentin returns, and then kisses him softly. It's... nice. It's a boyfriend kind of kiss, curled up in the nest of blankets and misery with Quentin. Quentin, who's come just to check on him, it seems, content to curl up and let Saturday morning pass them by. 

"Is Bambi around?" Eliot wonders, so he can stop thinking about this lovely sweet boy all warm in his bed. 

"She hasn't walk of shame’d in yet."

"Excuse you, little Q, it is a walk of pride. Mama got exactly what she wanted."

Quentin snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yes of course, excuse me."

"Well. If she's not back yet, you'll have to do for the bad-hangover-ritual,” Eliot sighs dramatically, shifting in such a way that his belt digs into his hip. Seriously, Drunk Eliot was an idiot, going to sleep with his _belt on_. Fuck that guy. 

"Oh, there's a ritual?"

"Of course there’s a ritual. Lemon ginger tea for hydration and nausea, and watching Dirty Dancing. Since you’re not actively dying, you make the tea."

"Drama queen," Quentin grumbles, but he presses a kiss to Eliot's hair and actually does it. Eliot doesn't even have bribe him. 

Instead, he sets about divesting himself of his slept-in clothes. Unable to be fucked to do more with them then half-heartedly straighten, he ends up tossing the pants and vest over the foot of the bed. He’s properly enrobed by the time Quentin returns, steaming cup of tea in one hand, and his own black coffee with sugar in the other. Eliot takes his tea with a soft thanks, already feeling marginally more human. 

“I’ve never actually seen this movie,” Quentin says thoughtfully as he climbs up into the bed, allowing himself to be rearranged until Eliot’s satisfied, smuggled-in laptop between them. 

“A tragic flaw, but one easily remedied,” Eliot sighs, gets the movie going, and then relaxes back into the mountain of pillows.

The reality is, he wouldn’t watch this with anyone else besides Q or Margo. It’d be giving a window into something too personal, opening up a soft spot for a bat or a bullet. But Quentin’s not going to judge him for quoting along, or for going quiet during certain parts. Quentin, of all people, knows what it’s like to love something unironically. It’s part of his charm.

Margo slips into the room around the time the dance lesson montage gets underway, smiling at them both in that gleaming Margo way. “Hey Bambi,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin turns to look at her, then wriggles around a little so they can make space for her on Eliot’s other side.

“Hello, lover boys,” she teases, climbing onto the bed to take it. She’d found time to dress down too, as much as she ever does, yoga pants and a big sweater with her hair in a bun.

“We’re not to that part yet,” Eliot points out, lifting his arm so she can squirm under it.

“This is like, surprisingly progressive with the abortion storyline,” Quentin says quietly, clearly focused on the movie. “I was not expecting that at all. I thought it was just like... sexy dancing. I feel like they couldn’t get away with this nowadays.”

“Probably not,” Margo agrees. “Which is pretty fucked up.”

“Shut up, nerds,” Eliot says with fake annoyance, like he’s not clinging to both of them like they’re the only thing keeping him stuck to the planet. “My man’s about to give a speech about balance.”

The tea and the potion and the company work their magic, and by the time Johnny and Baby share their final dance, Eliot doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore. In fact, he feels very pleasantly alive, surrounded on both sides by the warm, familiar bodies of his very favorite people. He’s also becoming very aware of the fact that he hadn’t actually gotten to have sex last night, because the person he does that with now decided to go be a scribe for the night.

He’s lazily contemplating if now is the time to find out if a threesome with Margo is going to happen or not when she stretches, and rolls away from him. “I think we’ve reached the _‘Margo goes to take a bath because she’s still sore from the fantastic dicking she got last night’_ part of the hangover ritual,” she drawls, clearly very pleased with herself.

“I hope it was weird and satisfying,” he teases back as Quentin curls up a little closer, hiding his smile in Eliot’s armpit. 

“Oh, it was,” she promises with a wink, then leans over to smack a kiss on the top of Q’s head. “Thanks for looking out for my man, little Q.”

Whatever he says in response is unintelligible through the fabric for Eliot’s robe, but he surfaces once Margo’s gone. “Well, hello there,” Eliot greets, nosing down until he can steal a kiss. Quentin, predictably, goes kind of boneless, but kisses back eagerly enough that Eliot suspects he’s not the only one feeling a little skin-hungry. He tastes bitter and sweet like his coffee when Eliot licks between his lips, and shivers in response to it. _Oh, you needy, eager little thing_. 

“She fucks like us, right?” Quentin asks curiously when Eliot draws away, still a relaxed puddle in his arms. When Eliot noses down to kiss him again, he gives easily, openly. “I mean. She’s into the– power play?”

“Mmhm,” Eliot agrees. “She doesn’t switch, though. Mama’s in charge at all times.” 

“Yeah, that tracks,” Quentin agrees, wriggling his whole body against Eliot’s in a way that’s very lovely and very distracting. But his brain is also going, and Eliot knows him well enough to let him spin it out, or he’ll be much harder to distract. “Have you subbed for her?”

The question gives Eliot pause. “A couple times,” he says mildly, even if it had only been just the two of them once. Q looks fascinated, and suddenly Eliot doesn’t want him to fixate on this. Something about it makes him vaguely uncomfortable, not Quentin’s interest in Margo but the idea that she could ever be reduced down to just someone Eliot sleeps with any more than Quentin could. Like anything about his relationship with either of them could be distilled to just that. Still, he’d been curious, so: “We– split the other way, more often. Team up, Dom together. Is that something you want? The two of us taking you apart?”

“I–” Quentin flushes, looking a little caught out, but then something in his face changes. “Honestly, she still scares me a little.”

Eliot laughs, feeling that familiar swell of affection. “That can be the point, you know. She’s good at putting boys in their place.”

Quentin’s quiet, for a moment, looking far too thoughtful. “That’s your job, though,” he says softly, like Eliot’s whole heart isn’t trying to crawl out of his chest and curl up next to Q’s. “I think– if you wanted to– show off, how I am for you, maybe...”

“Share my toy?” Eliot murmurs, feeling a spike of heat at the idea. “Bambi and I do share so well.”

“But I’d still be yours.”

“Of course, baby boy,” Eliot murmurs, petting softly at the side of Quentin’s neck. “We’ll have to talk about this with all the clinical terminology you hate so much, you know.”

“I know,” Quentin agrees, pushing up happily into Eliot’s hand. “Informed consent, I get it.”

“Yeah, fuck me for trying to be good to you,” Eliot laughs, and he means it lightly, but Quentin’s big brown eyes soften.

“You are good to me.”

There’s a dizzy moment where Eliot almost says _no that’s not what I meant_ out loud, because he hadn’t– been searching, for reassurance or validation. But it’s nice to have, isn’t it, when he’s so, so skinned open everytime Quentin so much as smiles at him. To know he’s doing it right, giving Quentin what he needs– that’s no bad thing.

Quentin pushes up for another kiss, and excitement sparkles through Eliot’s veins. Sober and mostly not-hungover, they have hours and hours stretching out before them, before things like homework and other social activities had to start taking up their time. Hours to do things like bind Quentin’s forearms and hands behind his back with some ties and feed him cock slowly. Time enough for a languorous, lazy blowjob that lasts and last, until Eliot’s sweating from the effort of holding back and Quentin’s completely blissed out. Sweet boy slides right down into subspace when he gets something in his mouth. Eliot loves it. He _loves it_, loves his ties on Quentin’s skin, dark green against his sturdy forearms. He wants to wrap another one, soft tender silk, around Quentin’s throat, just gently, so gently, just to–

Lead him with, guide him with it.

The thought makes Eliot feel a little drunk again, watching with a kind of fascinated rapture as the shaft of his cock slides in and out of Quentin’s mouth with each lift of his hips. His sweet boy’s blissed out, surrendered to Eliot’s rhythm, the guiding motions of his hands. Overcome, suddenly, Eliot knows he’s about to come, and he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t want to let go of the leash of control he has on both of them, doesn’t want to let go of the trust and connection he feels, with Quentin pliant and eager at his feet.

Sliding his fingers into Quentin’s hair, he gets distracted for a moment, by the silk strands under his fingertips. But being touched, petted like this makes _Quentin_ moan, and that’s too much, too much when Eliot feels like he’s been having his dick sucked for _hours_. He makes a fist in Quentin’s hair, tangled up and guaranteed to hurt, and then pulls Quentin’s hot wet mouth off his cock.

“No,” Quentin protests, voice high and light, almost bratty except he sounds _distressed_ and it shouldn’t be– it shouldn’t be hot but it _is_. Eliot’s stomach clenches, frissons of pleasure making all the hair on his skin stand on end. Jesus. Fucking _lord have mercy_, this _boy_...

“You need it, don’t you, sweetheart?” Eliot cooes, feeling tender and hot and powerful, electric and focused. “Tell me, tell me what you need.”

“-in my mouth,” Quentin slurs, straining forward against Eliot’s hands in his hair, pretty pink wet mouth open. 

“I know. I know you do, baby boy. It’s okay, you can have it.” The sound Quentin makes, half a desperate sob and half a moan, shoots through Eliot lightning. His dick jerks, a little pulse of precome that just gets him wetter, adds to the mess. 

Quentin whines, looking up at Eliot with big, wet eyes, a whisper of “_please_,” escaping as he wriggles, not actually fighting all that hard against Eliot’s hand in his hair. He could break out of Eliot’s grip if he wanted too, but he’s not trying, only straining just enough to make it tug on his scalp. Eliot’s ties dig into the skin on his arms, so fucking pretty, he’s such a picture down on the floor at Eliot’s feet, begging for cock.

“Okay, you’re okay, sweet boy. I’ll give you want you need,” Eliot coos, sliding one hand down to grip the base of his cock, angle it so he can feed it into Quentin’s mouth with a sigh. Quentin makes a desperate little happy sound, eyes fluttering closed as he sucks, like he really does _need it,_ like it’s the only thing keeping him going in this moment. 

Eliot comes with a laugh, nearly whiting out with the intensity of it. All brattiness gone, Quentin waits, attentive, for Eliot exist on the mortal plane again. He’s nuzzling his nose against the inside of Eliot’s thigh like he just needs contact and– since he doesn’t have his hands– he’ll make do with what he’s got. Pretty little needy thing, he’s hard, drippingly so, a couple drops of pre-come glistening on the floor under him where he’s _leaking. _Eliot _can’t_ with this boy, with his _hunger_, Jesus. 

He has to scoop Q up into his lap and kiss him , fits his hand over Quentin's wet cock and works him up to the edge with praise and affection, hands still bound behind is back. It leaves his balance precarious, tucked in against Eliot’s body, but with his shoulders and arms pulled back. All he can do is lean into Eliot’s hold and trust, can’t thrust into his grip, can’t do much without risking pitching off the side of the bed. It’s fine, though, it’s okay, Eliot’s not going to let him fall, never ever. Just kisses him, and holds on tight, fist working over his hard wet cock.

“Please,” Quentin begs, near tears with this self-imposed rule, where Eliot’s the only one who gets to decide when he comes.

“Hold on a little bit longer,” Eliot breathes, just to see if he can, pushing just a little because his whole brain is on _fire_ with Quentin, Quentin, _Quentin_. This tender, sweet boy who _sobs_ but does as Eliot says, holds himself in check until Eliot presses soft kisses against his ear and tells him to come, _come for me baby boy._

Later, in the tender stretch of time that is aftercare, Eliot gets Quentin laid out on the bed, works into the muscles of his shoulders and arms to mitigate any strain from the bondage position. Quentin’s relaxed, happy under Eliot’s hands, talkative but without the frenetic edge to it that he gets sometimes. He tells Eliot a little more about the experiment with the time-pies, which actually does sound pretty cool. Chatter fades off into a quiet lull, and he looks content enough when Eliot’s satisfied he’s not going to be too stiff and lets him roll over.

If Eliot settles down on top of him for more kisses, well. Intimacy and affection are important in aftercare.

“Can I ask for something?” Quentin murmurs, nosing up until he can brush their lips together in a soft kiss, speaking against Eliot’s lips. “I want– to try something.”

Eliot’s heart throbs with affection, with excitement, the stomach swooping feeling of pride at how far this brave, bright man as come. “Of course, sweet boy, you can always ask.”

Quentin reaches out, fingers closing on Eliot’s abandoned belt, still draped over the foot of the bed. Eliot had honestly forgot it was there until just this moment. “Would you use this on me sometime?”

A dark frisson of excitement and apprehension shoots through Eliot, and he reaches out to take the belt. It’s such an ordinary thing, something he’s handled countless times before, but it feels heavier in his hand than he’s ever been aware of until this moment, steady and solid. This would be something new to him. He’s used floggers and crops on people before, but never a belt. He’d have to do some research, to be safe, maybe ask Margo. But he’s already thinking about it, stripes of red across pale white skin... 

“It’d hurt a lot more than my hand,” he says carefully. Laying half on top of Quentin like he is, he can feel the full body shiver in response to his words.

“I know. That’s kind of the point.”

Eliot hums, petting the dip between Q’s collarbones thoughtfully with his free hand. “I like the idea of it, in theory.” He does, if he doesn’t put some distance between himself and the idea he’s going to start getting hard again. So, in their vernacular: “Haven’t done this exactly, want to try.”

“This exactly?” Quentin repeats, questioning, so Eliot explains about impact play classes at a sex toy store, a couple of years ago, which makes Quentin turn bright red. “I can’t imagine going to a _class_ on this.”

“I appreciate that you think I’m just naturally gifted, baby, but it’s taken practice and effort,” Eliot says fondly. Quentin wrinkles his nose in response, cute as all hell, and Eliot is absolutely powerless to do anything other than kiss him some more.

They talk about it, though, in more detail so Eliot can parse the idea thoroughly, figure out exactly which bit of it is hitting right for Quentin. It doesn’t seem to be a punishment scene he’s after, because Quentin was lucky enough not to grow up with parents who belted him. He goes a little white at the suggestion, actually, tries to back peddle and apologize, but Eliot–

Gets it. 

Some people wanted punishment for the catharsis of it, but that wasn’t Q. All of his hard limits centered around not wanting to feel _wrong_ because of their dynamic: he didn’t want to be made to feel replaceable, made to feel unwanted, made to feel like a disappointment. Even the very first spanking they’d done, it hadn’t been about punishment. It had just been– sensation. A thing they could feel and share together. That was all he wanted now, a more intense feeling.

So Eliot agrees to it, a tentative plan for sometime towards the end of the week, depending on their respective course work loads. Then the next day he corners Margo after a particularly frustrating and dull alchemy lecture and quips: “So. Any tips on how to belt my pretty boy’s ass red in a couple days?”

Margo’s delighted laughter makes Eliot feel like he’s won something. “See, now _there_ an area of expertise I could write a dissertation on.”

And indeed, she could.

––

Eliot has a ritual when it comes to preparing for a scene. 

They played in his room most of the time, because it allowed him a greater deal of control over the environment. That was the start of his ritual, to clear away as much clutter as possible, present a neat and orderly space. He strips the duvet off the bed and changes the fitted sheet, leaving only a clean, open canvas to take Q apart on. Then the magical protections: a protective enchantment on the bed to repel moisture, a ward to block in sound, a ward to keep out unwanted visitors, another charm to keep the room the specific temperature he wanted. 

Cooler, he decides in the hours before they were meant to play that Thursday. Cooler, so Eliot can be comfortable in his shirt and trousers, and so Quentin’s skin responses to the chill, sensitive in the cool air. He showers and shaves with exacting care, taking the extra time to style his hair so the curls are soft but still hold their shape. All the while, he thinks about Quentin’s skins pebbled with goosebumps in the chilly air, the hair on his arms standing on end, the rough texture of it when Eliot runs his hands over it...

It’s too easy to get lost in fantasy, without Quentin himself here to keep him focused. He dials back in by checking over his ropes, running them through his hands to look for snags. The plan is to tie Quentin up tonight, to help him stay steady for a pain sharper than he was used to, which meant prepping ropes. Check the first aid kit, and supply of lube and condoms just in case, and that was pretty much it. All that was left to get ready was himself.

The particular belt in question is brown, and it’s the item around which Eliot’s entire ensemble for the evening is built: the dark browns and greens and tans of a forest. A little make up, eyeliner and concealer he’s definitely going to sweat off, and Eliot is good to go. Only thing missing is Q. 

It helps that Quentin does appreciate the effort, later, standing in the middle of Eliot’s room, barefoot in skinny black jeans and a grey button down. 

“I– you look so good,” Quentin whispers, a little shy, reaching out to touch the tan paisley pattern on Eliot’s tie. Eliot preens a little, arms held out to the side so Quentin can get the full effect, but Q’s gaze keeps drifting back up to his face. “Your eyes have green in them. I’ve never– noticed that, before.”

It’s– well, it’s kind of romantic, actually. It makes Eliot’s heart do something big and complicated. They’re here for some of the roughest play they’ve ever done, and his sweet submissive boy is _complimenting his eyes._

“You are just,” Eliot cooes, reeling him in by the belt-loops. “the sweetest little thing.”

“Hmmm, really makes you want to hit me, right?” Quentin hums, teasing and playful, but he’s pushing up onto his toes to kiss Eliot already, and it’s just... so nice.

Kissing him is just so fucking nice. Eliot lets himself sink into it, settle with it, fits a hand on the back of Quentin’s neck and tilts his head back. He goes, easy as anything, and Eliot hums his approval, licking softly at his sweet mouth just to get closer, get inside just that little bit. It makes Quentin shiver, and Eliot it can feel it, feel it all down his front where they’re pressed together.

Guiding Quentin back to the edge of the bed, Eliot pushes him down to sit. It leaves him pretty much eye level with Eliot’s crotch, which is exciting for a lot of reasons, most of which Eliot pushes to the back of his brain with the kind of focus he can only get in moments like this. It’s not about his dick right now, and he knows that. It will get its dues later. Now, he reaches to catch Quentin’s chin with his fingers, thumb pushing into the point of it. 

“Watch,” he murmurs, feeling hot and heady and powerful, then reaches down to carefully work the tongue of his belt in through the buckle. 

Quentin eyes fall with rapt attention to where Eliot’s methodically unbuckling his belt. It’s so lovely to watch, the way Quentin’s gets so intense, so clocked in the moments before he slides away. He’s swallowing reflexively, and that dark curling hunger in the pit of Eliot’s stomach wants to fit his hand just lightly over the tender stretch of Quentin’s throat. Just gently, just enough that he’d be able to feel it against his palm when Quentin swallows. 

Deliberately, carefully, Eliot draws his belt out through the loops with a soft _shhht_ of leather on fabric. The last couple inches he pulls out with enough force and control that it thwacks into the bed with an audible sound, enough to make Quentin jump and then groan a little.

“I’m going to tie you up,” Eliot says clearly, reaching out to pet his hand over Quentin’s hair. Q sighs, going a little boneless already, and Eliot clicks his tongue fondly, guiding Quentin forward until his forehead is resting on Eliot’s abdomen, leaning on him. “Yeah, sweet boy, it’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m going to get you out of your clothes, and tie your hands to the bed so you can’t wriggle around too much. How are we with that, good or stop?”

“Good,” Quentin agrees, rubbing his face kind of absently against Eliot’s stomach. 

“And if you need to stop–”

“Petrichor. I know, El,” Quentin interrupts, which riles Eliot a little bit. Instinct is telling him to lean into pushing back on the talking out of turn, but Quentin doesn’t want this scene to be a punishment.

So instead, he gets a handful of Quentin’s hair close to the scalp and winds it painfully tight, enough to make Quentin’s breathe catch and hold. Quentin _loves_ getting his hair pulled, so Eliot feels no remorse whatsoever in tugging his head back roughly until they can make eye contact. “I’m going to remind you every time,” Eliot says, in an overly patient voice as though he were talking to a child. “Because it’s my job to keep you safe. Right?”

Quentin swallows and nods, which has the convenient result of him pulling on his own hair some more. It almost makes Eliot smile. “Right. Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Eliot says easily, loosening his grip and rubbing his hand soothingly across Quentin’s scalp. “Now let’s get you out of your clothes, shall we?”

Naked and tied to the bed, Quentin presents such a beautiful picture. It’s been long enough since they’ve done a heavy scene that he’s free of rope burn or bruises, a clean canvas for Eliot to work on, cute little ass up-turned and his cock tucked safely away under his body. There’d been consideration, briefly when going over this with Margo, of tying his feet as well so he couldn’t really get enough leverage to move or grind on the bed. Ultimately, Eliot had discarded the idea. He did want Quentin to get off on this, after all, since it wasn’t a punishment. 

Eliot takes the time to move around the bed, admire Quentin from all angles. He undoes his tie as he goes, slipping it off and throwing it carelessly onto the bed beside Quentin. Unbuttoning the top couple of buttons on his shirt and rolling up his sleeves gives him freedom of movement, a greater level of rotation and control in his shoulders. Doesn’t hurt that he feels kind of sexy doing it, too.

Then it’s just– the belt. He picks it up it up, careful to place the buckle in the center of his palm and wind around it, keep it securely out of the way as per Margo’s instruction. He leaves himself a decent length to work with, and then moves in close, trails the edge of the belt along the tender exposed curve of Quentin’s foot. He jerks, hard, and then laughs a little, and Eliot grins. Focuses, and sets to work. 

The first hit lands with a resounding slap, sharp and loud in the air. Eliot’s pulling it a little, applying less force than he thinks he needs to at the start, to warm them both up, get used to the feeling of it. Quentin still jumps and then swears, wiggling with a little groan against the bed. After a couple hits, lines of red stripes are starting to appear on Quentin’s cute little ass, and he’s shifting, grinding down onto the bed and then pushing back out towards Eliot. _Pain slut_, Eliot thinks, hot and hungry in the back of his mind, but keeps it to himself as he settles into the rhythm of the strikes.

His sweet boy just wants to feel everything, after all. Eliot can give him that. 

He doesn’t notice right away when he gets the angle wrong, too focused on Quentin’s body language, his reactions to the hits, what little Eliot can see of his face. But a couple strong strikes must land on the edge of belt instead of the flat of it, because one moment he’s working on a canvas of pastel skin and the next there’s bright red lines crossing the rosy hue Quentin’s ass.

Bright red and wet and Eliot–

It’s a rushing slam of _ohgodnobad_ all at once, and he almost fucking drops the belt, only the cramp in his fingers from gripping the buckle keeps in his hand as the world starts going white on the edges of his vision and there’s a splatter of red on yellow behind his eyes but–

“P-petrichor,” he gasps out, turn his back on the bed long enough of fling the belt from his shaking hands, and he has to–

Quentin’s asking “What– El?” and he needs to– get the knots on the ropes, they should release quickly but he’s stumbling over himself on half-numb feet. “Eliot, what’s going on?”

“You’re bleeding,” he gets out, clipped, gets the rope released on Quentin’s right side, and as soon as it’s free, Q’s reaching for the left, which is good because Eliot needs– he needs to– he needs to do something.

First aid kit. 

It’s next to the bed where he left it, and he gets it open with shaking hands. Spills half the contents all over the floor, but he can only tell that in a distant way, manages to get antiseptic wipes and– what else do you need for broken skin? Kink safety classes he half remembered had said– gloves? But he and Quentin were– Didn’t need that for him.

“El, I’m alright,” Quentin’s saying, still on his stomach on the bed, and Eliot shakes his head wordlessly, climbing onto the bed so he can– take care– 

The cuts aren’t deep, just bleeding more from the blunt for trauma than they normally would, probably. Eliot cleans the blood away, murmur something soothing that he doesn’t even register himself when Quentin hisses at the sting. His hands are shaking, but he manages it, should probably get– 

“Cloth,” He mumbles, getting himself off the bed and towards the en-suit bathroom. Gets get a hand towel to stick under the stream of cold water except there’s blood on his–

–blood on his–

_–Quentin’s bloodonhishands._

He loses a little bit of time. Doesn’t register sinking to sit on the floor, only feels the tile cold through his pants. Doesn’t hear Quentin calling out for him, doesn’t see him come into the bathroom until he’s touching Eliot’s shoulder, trying to–

–get close, when he should be trying to _get away_.

“Eliot, come on,” Quentin’s coaxing, and Eliot shakes his head.

“No, no, _no, Q_. I’m so sor– I hurt you, oh god.” Once the words start, they don’t want to stop, and all he can see is the blood on Quentin’s skin, Quentin who _trusted him_ not to hurt him in a way that was– bad– in a way that would–

“I’m okay, I promise, just let me–”

“I _hurt you_. Oh god, what the fuck is _wrong with me_, that I get off on this shit?”

“Eliot, you’re crashing,” Quentin says pointedly, still _trying to crawl into Eliot’s lap_ even through he shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. “So either let me touch you or I’m going to go get Margo and _she _can help you deal with it.”

“No,” Eliot fucking whimpers, because he knows– he knows– he needs to– he knows Q shouldn’t go far, he needs to– but if Margo can help _Quentin_– “Do you need her to...?”

“I’m fine, baby, I promise,” Quentin murmurs, finally managing to settle himself in against Eliot’s chest. His arms wrap around Eliot’s shoulders and his legs fold around Eliot’s hips and suddenly Eliot’s _surrounded_ by Quentin. 

“I made you _bleed_,” Eliot moans, burying his face in Quentin’s neck, where the skin is soft and warm and damp with sweat.

“It was an accident,” Q murmurs, hands rubbing across the back of Eliot’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice, I’m sorry I didn’t stop you sooner.”

“It’s not your job to notice,” Eliot says mechanically, but he feels hollow, empty inside. What the fuck was wrong with him? He’s _falling in love_ with this man, and spends half their time together hurting him. 

“It is, baby,” Quentin says gently, fingers scratting gently through Eliot’s curls. “I know that’s a hard limit for you. I need to be aware of your boundaries as much as you do of mine.”

“Quentin, when you’re in subspace I _can’t_ expect you to be aware of anything. That’s the whole point. I need to– I should have– this was _my fault_–”

“Eliot, you’re hyperventilating,” Quentin says softly, rubbing his hand across Eliot’s back again. “Can you breathe with me? Just match my breathing, okay?”

It’s surprisingly easy to do, once Eliot can focus on it. Quentin’s holding him tight enough that each inhale presses his ribs into Eliot’s, and there’s a steady rhythm to it, a long inhale and an even longer exhale. The static of panic begins to recede, an odd sensation like Eliot’s consciousness is coming back into focus, a radio tuning into the right frequency

“Breathing exercises?” he mumbles against Quentin’s bare shoulder where his face is still hidden.

“Yeah, I– they work sometimes? Better if you’ve got someone to guide you through it,” Quentin says hesitantly. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull back, and Eliot’s stupidly grateful for it. He’s not sure he can look at Quentin right now.

Quentin, who’s naked still, sitting in the curve of Eliot’s half folded legs with one hand buried in Eliot’s hair, the other sweeping across the back of his shirt. It’s– this position has got to be _murder_ on his ass, with Eliot’s trousers rubbing against the damaged skin. 

He opens his mouth to say _‘we should get you cleaned up and dressed’_, but what comes out instead is “I’m so fucking sorry.” Then tears prickle at his eyes, and he grinds his face against Quentin’s collarbone, trying to force them back. That’s _not helpful_, not now.

“I know,” Quentin says, and he sounds a little– lost, maybe, or confused, but his hand is gentle on the back of Eliot’s skull, stroking down to his neck. Eliot focuses on that instead, and grabs for distance, for composure. He doesn’t get it, though, or at least not fast enough because it’s Quentin who murmurs. “How about we go back to the bed, yeah?”

The bare stretch of sheeted mattress makes Eliot’s stomach turn a little, but the blankets aren’t far, easy to find and toss in a pile at the foot of the bed. Quentin’s hovering, shifting a little from foot to foot, probably because his ass is stinging like a motherfucker. But when Eliot turns towards him, he moves a step closer, hand hovering out towards Eliot’s elbow. _He’s worried about me_, Eliot realizes with a pang of– something, sharp and bright in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he ignores it.

“You should let me check you over again,” he forces out, and his voice doesn’t even sound too brittle about it.

“Are you sure you... I think I’m fine, you don’t have to–”

“Oh, I sure as fuck do have to,” Eliot snaps out, louder than he meant. Looks away, because he can’t keep looking at Quentin wearing worry on his brows, not when Eliot’s the one who– He drags his mind back into task like it’s a physical force. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Okay,” Quentin agrees, fingers brushing softly against the point of Eliot’s elbow, just under his shirt. Like a graceless baby deer, he clambors up onto the bed while Eliot circles around to the scattered first aid kit, collects antibiotic cream and gauze and medical tape. Q’s hugging a pillow, watching him, his expressive face going on a journey of it’s own that Eliot doesn’t have the bandwidth to process right now. 

Cleaning and bandaging is a pretty fast process, all told. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” Eliot admits, as he finishes taping gauze over one of the two breaks in the skin even remotely deep enough to justify it. 

Quentin hums in agreement, arms still folded around the pillow, head resting against them so he can watch Eliot at his side. “Told you so,” he mumbles, and Eliot thinks it should be irritating, except all he has the space to feel suddenly is fucking exhausted.

“You don’t have to stay, if–” He starts, but wait, that’s not right, so he backs up and starts again. “I’m out of energy, I think I need to. Sleep. Or something. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” 

Quentin’s silent for a minute, then he says quietly, carefully, “I don’t think I should leave you right now, Eliot.”

“I don’t know how you can stand to be around me–” Eliot starts, pressure behind his eyes building again, and he turns away, turns his back on Q so he can blink down the tide rising inside him. 

“If you want me to leave–” Quentin starts, voice small and uncertain, and fear seizes in Eliot’s stomach because _something between them might actually break for good if he does_. “–then I will. But I don’t want to go. I feel safe here, I want– your skin on mine. I want to hold you for a bit. I feel like I need to stay with you for a while.”

“I don’t feel safe,” Eliot admits, looking down at his shaking hands. 

But he does feel safer, when Quentin’s palm settles onto his back, warm through his shirt. “Let’s just try some normal aftercare, see if that helps, okay?”

It feels weirdly like going through the motions. Eliot strips down to his underwear, and they gracelessly drag up the pile of blankets until they’re mostly covered, sharing a bottle of fruit juice between them. Quentin’s snuggly, a little pushier about it than he is normally, but normally he’s a blissed out mess of endorphins and epinephrine. Now he just seems determined to cuddle _Eliot_ into submission. 

It helps. The skin contact helps, Quentin’s ease, eagerness to be close to Eliot helps. It still takes a long, long time before Eliot manages to unwind. Laid out on his back with Quentin stretched out half on top of him, he trails his fingertips across Quentin’s back, down the line of his spine and back up. Quentin’s skin under his fingers is warm and soft, Quentin’s breath against his neck a steady reassurance as the shake of adrenaline leaves him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats again, because it’s all he can think, a loop of remorse in his brain like static, a fog obscuring that bridge of trust between them. The hook of the crash is loosening, a little, enough so he can get enough distance to see that Quentin had been right, he really did need to stay. Every second Eliot spent touching him was a reassurance to them both that the foundation they’d been building together had weathered the quake, that it was sturdy and would hold. 

“I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for,” Quentin says carefully. “I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

“I fucked up,” Eliot points out, feeling Quentin nuzzling his face in against Eliot’s chest. He’s not entirely sure he’s talking about the belting, but– fuck, at the very least they hadn’t negociated or prepared Quentin for blood to be drawn.

“And you fixed it,” Quentin points out, clinging a little closer. “Things started to go wrong, and you used your safeword, and you stopped the scene. That’s what it’s _for_.”

Eliot snorts out a laugh, and feels some of the tension in his chest let go a little. “Thanks for the kink lesson, Mr. Q.”

“Sounds like you need a refresher course in the basics,” Quentin says glibly, wriggling a little closer. It ratchets down the tension in Eliot’s body just a little bit more, and Quentin seems to be able to feel it. Leveraging himself up a little, he goes in for a soft kiss, which pours down Eliot’s spine like liquid, soothing and sincere. Then he says more seriously, “If you want to talk about it, you can? But as far as I’m concerned, we’re good, El.”

It’s an out and Eliot, coward that he is, takes it.

__

He feels marginally better when he wakes up the next morning, which is an encouraging thought.

He also wakes up with Quentin’s hair in his mouth, wet enough to indicate it’s been there for a while. Quentin, for his part, is still passed the fuck out, though a glance at the clock says he won’t be able to stay that way for long. Eliot pulls himself free enough to smooth Quentin’s hair down, and then settles back down comfortably against Q’s side. 

Feeling marginally better doesn’t exactly mean feeling great, as it turns out. Eliot contemplates the idea of a whole fucking Friday of classes with something akin to dread, imagines trying to make himself focus on circumstantial equations or transmutation theory when all he wants is Q’s skin against his. Not for the normal reasons he wants Q’s skin against his, either, but so he can see him, touch him, make sure he’s alright.

He ends up hiding in Margo’s room for most of the morning instead. Quentin may be a dedicated little nerd who doesn’t believe in skipping, but Margo’s always looking for an excuse to blow off class. She flourishes under his attention enough that she’s not gonna push what he’s hiding from either, which helps. It’s shitty, objectively, but whatever. He’s kind of a shitty person. Witness: the last 24 hours.

He does go to his pyromancy class in the evening, though. Lighting shit on fire always makes him feel better.

She doesn’t entirely let him off the hook though. As he’s heading off for class, she catches his arm and says “Whatever’s eating you, baby, you gotta deal with it. I need you at full fabulous, so. If I can help you pull your head out of your twat, let me know.” 

“Thanks, Bambi,” he murmurs, and kisses her fleetingly. It’s waxy, but he doesn’t have to worry about lipstick stains on his face. Mama only fucks with smudge-proof.

So it does get better, but only to a point. Then it stagnates, a cold hard lump of displeasure in his chest, like a knot of emotion made physical. Quentin does, in fact, seem fine. A little cautious, maybe, but not overly so. He is, frankly, too self-absorbed to really notice Eliot stewing as long as all outward signs of affection continue.

It’s not a bad thing, not all the time. If Quentin was going to get twisted up everytime Eliot got moody, they’d never fucking escape the dark clouds.

Margo, though. Margo is_ not_ self-absorbed, no matter how much she pretends to be. And Margo is also 100% not afraid of calling Eliot on his bullshit. So he takes her out for coffee in New York City once Sunday rolls around and leaves them free of social obligations. Last night’s party had been incredibly lackluster by Eliot’s own standards, and he simply cannot abide that. 

Frankly, he's still tangled up in his head a little bit, and at the very least Margo will not pull her punches if he’s being truly idotic. He truly does love his no-filter Bambi. So they stroll out of the NYC portal, because if they’re going to have this awkward fucking conversation, they’re doing it in a place where there's no chance that Quentin or any of his other firstie buddies could walk in on them.

“So, what’s got your balls in a twist?” Margo asks, with all of her accustomed delicacy, as she leaves a blood-red lipstick stain on her porcelain latte cup. He is, as ever, in awe of her, the way she wield every bit of herself as a weapon, his doe-eyed killer girl. “Boy problems?”

“Boy adjacent,” Eliot sighs, reclining as much as his legs will allow in this tiny coffee shop. “We had a scene go bad a couple of days ago.”

“Oh?” Margo’s brows pinch in concern, frowning. “The belting thing? What, was he not as into it as he thought he’d be?”

“No, I– As far as I can tell, he was having a great time. But I fucked up and made him bleed.”

Margo, of course, knows Eliot better than anyone. She knows where his hard lines fall, and unlike anyone else he’s played with more casually, she knows _why_. The trials had been the start of collecting each other’s secrets, and they’d never really stopped.

“Oh, sweetie,” she breathes out, setting down her cup. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright,” he returns, and somehow it’s not a lie, not when Quentin had fallen asleep in his bed for the last two nights. He’s alright, and it’s not a lie because Quentin had kissed him goodbye this morning on his way to the library, thoughtlessly but honestly. “I think, somehow, we’re actually going to be alright. I– kind of checked out a bit, but he held it together remarkably well.”

“Maybe he’s more a switch than you think,” Margo says shrewdly, and Eliot rolls his eyes.

“Or he’s just a good person, with like. Human empathy.”

Margo wrinkles her nose. “Well, I guess. He is a big old pile of feelings, I suppose it’s possible.”

Eliot huffes, and decides to ignore her. “So, yeah. I think we might be done with trying new things for a little while, until I feel a little more solid but–”

"Not gonna keep trying to work up to having him call you Daddy?" 

Snorting out a laugh, Eliot images the look Quentin’s face. "I’m not sure that was ever on the table to begin with. He wouldn't be able to without dying of embarrassment, and I don't believe in setting myself up for that kind of disappointment." 

"Ah, well. I guess he can't be perfect.” Margo’s lips twist in a wry little smile.

"That’s the thing, though," Eliot starts, then hesitates. "He kind of is. Like... In every way that’s important. In every way that matters. Even the _you_ of it all, Bambi, he _gets_ it. How likely was that to happen? That there’d be a boy who’d _get us_."

“Is this a feelings talk?” Margo asks, giving him a suspicious look. “If it is, you’re buying me a croissant after. Emotional labor doesn’t come free.”

“Fuck, I will buy you 12 croissants if you can help me figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do with the fact that I think I’m falling in love with him, but I also _really_ get off on hitting him until he cries.”

“Well. Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Eliot takes a sip of his iced coffee, to give them both time to process. The feeling of self-loathing that had come during the crash has loosened some, leaving behind instead a vague sense trepidation, a little seed of doubt. “I really like him, Margo. I think I want to date him. Like actually date him. But I’ve never– I’m not very good at being a boyfriend, to begin with, I don’t even know how that mixes in with being his Dom.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, babycakes, but the two of you are already kind of disgustingly attached. I know you have fantastic kinky sex, and believe me I enjoy hearing about it. But you also spend a lot of time _not_ having sex. I mean, you let him do the hang-over ritual with you. How many other boys have you let do that?”

“No one has ever wanted too,” Eliot says softly, but maybe she has a point. It’s not like he’s been holding a door open into the inner circle of his life for every boy he’s traded a blowjob with. Quentin’s different. Quentin had been a friend first and foremost, someone Eliot actually wanted in his space. Who else ever got that far, besides Margo?

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the reason the boyfriend thing doesn’t work for you is because you cut off a part of yourself when you try to do it?” Margo asks, resting her chin on her knuckles. “I mean, I don’t know, I’m shit at this too. You’re the longest relationship I’ve ever had and I plan to keep it that way, honestly. But you’re like... all mushy and stuff, and so is Coldwater. Maybe it’d work for you _because_ it’s both.”

Eliot thinks about that for a moment, tries to weigh the idea in his mind. It’s not– terribly unlike where they’re at now, just with more... more of the stuff that’s not fucking. “I want to cook for him and listen to him talk about his nerd shit, and make him watch movies that don't have lasers or elves in them. I want to be the first person he tells when he figures out his discipline, even before Wicker. I want to get all dressed up for dates with him, even if all he can appreciate about it is the effort. But...”

“But you also want to make him cry at least two times a week?”

“Kind of, yeah. Fuck, Margo, does that make me the same kind of person as my father?” The thought makes his stomach turn, it’s one he’s been carefully avoiding looking at since the first time he slapped Q in the face during sex and got harder for it. It’s been especially difficult to ignore, the last couple of days.

“What? Eliot, _no_,” Margo hisses, sitting forward. He doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until she grabs it. 

“How? He was a drunk asshole who beat my step-mom for fun, how is that–”

“You _know_ how, baby,” Margo says, viciously, squeezing his hand tightly. “It’s different. You _know_ it is, because you’d never hurt that boy for real. You’d never hurt him unless he explicitly asked for it first, unless you _talked_ about it first. Fuck, you had a whole conversation about kink with him before you _spanked_ him, which is like... a fairly vanilla thing to do, on the spectrum of weird sex you can have.”

“I just want to take care of him,” Eliot admits, and his voice is smaller than he’d like it to be. He almost flinches, but Margo takes pity on him just this once, doesn’t give him shit for being squishy and emotional. Not now. Not with this.

“I know you do, El. You’re good at it. Look, I haven’t even fucked the kid and I know he’s wound up tighter than a spring most of the time. You get him to let go of that. You’re _good for him_.” She definitely means in the ‘you make him function better’ kind of way, but the little part of him that is always just... waiting, craving her validation, unwinds just a bit. “You and I both know that if he wanted to stop with the heavier shit tomorrow, you’d give it up to keep him.”

“Yeah. But I’d miss it.”

“Well, luckily, I don’t think you have to. Like I said, I think having your cake and also slapping your cake might be the secret to happiness, in this case.”

“Is that a kind of relationship that can really function, though?”

“I mean, yes, in theory. People do it.” Margo shrugs, squeezing his hand one more time before leaning back in her chair. “People date their Doms, people in relationships find kink together. Fucking _married people_ play, Eliot. It’s all about what works for you and for your particular neurotic nerd. If what you _want_ is to kiss, kiss, fall in love, and do a little spanking on the side, then well. Do that shit. Be ecstatically happy about it. Kill anyone who would dare to judge you.”

Fuck, Eliot loves her. Will he ever, ever stop feeling awed by Margo Hanson?

“Great,” He agrees, just to fill space, and takes another sip of iced coffee to settle his frazzled nerves. Then, “I probably need to talk to him, don’t I?”

“Well,” Margo smirks, picking up her latte again. “If you want to keep being ishy squishy feelings boys about it, then yeah, probably.”

Quentin has retreated to his own room by the time they get back on campus, edging on midafternoon. The door is cocked open, and Eliot can just make out a glimpse of the man himself stretched out on his back on the bed with a book on his chest. Kinetic with nervous energy, Eliot bounces on the balls of his feet outside the room for long enough it’s probably embarrassing. _Stop fucking putting it off, your making it worse_, he tells himself sternly, then raps his knuckles sharply on the door.

“Yeah?” comes Q’s voice, sounding distracted, and Eliot pushes the door the rest of the way open. Q glances over at him, and there’s that smile, the actually happy smile that reaches his eyes spreading across Quentin’s face. “Hey.”

“Hey, Little Q,” Eliot says lazily, strolling into the room and closing the door with a forced arrogance, a mask over his own shakily interior. Quentin’s dorm room is pretty unremarkable all told, the only attempts at personalization he’s made are a couple Fillory And Further map posters tacked haphazardly to the walls. Q’s room does get amazing sunlight in the afternoon, though, and he’s bathed in it now. The bed is like a pool of golden light, and Quentin might actually be a cat, because he seems happy as can bed, soaking up the sun.

“I figured you’d be out with Margo most of the night,” Quentin says easily, as Eliot strolls over towards the edge of the bed. It’s a reasonable assumption, usually when they venture off campus they don’t come back without taking advantage of _some_ real-world entertainment, a gallery or dancing or a show. 

"Not tonight.” Eliot waves his hand dismissively, then more pointedly, “I owe you a check-in. We never debriefed after our scene on Thursday."

"Oh. I kinda figured we were just– never going to," Quentin admits, pushing himself up to sit. There's a little bit of a wince, as his weight settles onto his ass, and Eliot feels a twinge of guilt. It’s probably the bruises that hurt more than the broken skin, anyway, and Eliot’s never really had a problem with that. Still, Quentin settles gingerly, giving Eliot a speculative look. "I didn't think you were gonna want to talk about it."

"You shouldn't let me get away with that shit," Eliot sighes, sinking down to sit on the bed next to him. "It’s bad kink etiquette."

"Listen, I mean, I’ve had enough panic attacks to know what they look like," Quentin points out hesitantly, knees pulling up to his chest. "This seems like something outside of kink etiquette."

Eliot shakes his head mutely, but it’s hard– it’s so hard to have this conversation, and it’ll be easier to frame it if they can just make it normal. If it’s part of their normal routine. “We start with what worked for you,” he coaches, folding his hands in his lap. Q lets him stay closed off for about thirty seconds before he’s reaching out, taking Eliot’s hand in his.

“I mean– All of it worked well for me,” Quentin starts, skeptically. Eliot gives him a pleading look, and he rolls his eyes, but plays along. “I liked the ropes, I liked that you were dressed and I wasn’t. I liked the belt, it was– you were right, it hurt more but. I was into it. I wasn’t so into the fact that something we did sent you into a panic attack, but. I liked that you safeworded out when you needed too, so let’s keep that on the table.”

“Brat,” Eliot accuses, but there’s no heft to it. Quentin’s fingers tighten on his, the corner of his lip quirking in a half-smile, a little peek of dimple, and he’s so– lovely, and true, and good. Eliot swallows, and makes himself speak. “I liked tying you up. I liked the start of the scene in general. I’m kind of indifferent to the belt as a tool, and I don’t think I know how to use it well enough to want to try again. Making you bleed was bad.”

_Bad is kind of the understatement of the century. _

“Okay,” Quentin says immediately. “We won’t do it again.”

“I’m not done,” Eliot says gentle, brushing his thumb against the back of Quentin’s hand.

“Oh, um. Go ahead?” 

“The fact that I fell apart when I should have been taking care of you bothers me,” Eliot admits, looking away then quickly back to Quentin. More than anything else, this the thing sticking in his brain, the thing he’s having a hard time letting go of. “I feel like I betrayed your trust. I feel like I betrayed my trust in _myself_.”

“I don’t feel that way,” Quentin says, seriously, scooting forward a little bit. “I still trust you. Eliot, you did take care of me. You were– You noticed and you stopped, and you used your safeword, and you got me free, and you cleaned the cuts and made sure I was alright. You bandaged it up after and you held me all night. Literally, _I’ve _been feeling bad because I– there’s a minefield somewhere in your brain that I made you step on. Even by accident, I don’t want to do that ever again.”

“It’s hard to talk about,” Eliot forces out, because he feels like he _owes Q _honesty, but Quentin nods in understanding.

“I get it. I really, really _do get it_, El.”

“You’re just–” Eliot starts, helpless, free hand drifting up to touch Quentin’s cheek. Q turns into it, resting his head in Eliot’s palm, and Eliot’s heart aches, a low and slow squeeze. “You’re so important to me. You’re _so important_ to me, Q, do you even know how important you are?”

“Figure I gotta be, if you’re willing to swear off other dick,” Quentin jokes, but it’s half-hearted, doesn’t quite land. There’s a lingering insecurity in Quentin’s eyes, and why wouldn’t there be? It’s not exactly like Eliot is very good at feelings talk. Like, at all.

Still. “I’d give up a lot, if you asked me too. I’d give up the kinky shit, if you asked me to.”

Something confused and hurt passes over Quentin’s face, and he pulls away from Eliot’s hand, curling in down around his knees in a little defensive hunch. “Are you saying you don’t want to do it anymore?”

“No, baby, that’s not what I meant,” Eliot rushes out, scooting a little forward. “All sardonic quips aside, Quentin, you are the best part of my day. I’m trying to say I want to _date you._ If you don’t think you can do that and do the kinky shit, I’d rather– keep getting to be your person, Q. I _like_ being your person.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, looking a little startled. “I mean– Can we do both?”

“I kinda think it’s up to us what we do,” Eliot admits, giving Quentin a wry smile. “If you still want to, after– last time...”

“I do!” It’s an eager burst, and Eliot starts laughing, can’t help himself. It feels _good_ to laugh, like something that’s been wound tight inside him is finally releasing. “Oh, shut up. You can’t dangle _life changing sex_ in front of me, and then threaten to take it away if I want to hold your hand in public.”

“You want to do that?”

“I mean, _yeah_.” Quentin looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Every time I like... lay down with my head in your lap, I’m half expecting you not to let me.”

“I love it when you do that!” Eliot giggles, because Jesus. They’re both _idiots_.

A disbelieving smile touches the corners of Q’s mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together. “I really am sorry, for the last time.”

“If I had to safeword out, would you hold it against me?” Quentin asks pointedly, drawing back.

“No, but– it’s different.”

“Because you feel like if was your job to stop it from happening and you didn’t?” Eliot nods mutely. “Can you– could you maybe tell me why? Maybe if I understand what we tripped on, I can help you avoid it in the future.”

“It’s just blood. I know it’s going to affect me badly,” Eliot says, heart crawling into his throat. But, well. Quentin has the right to make informed choices about the kind of person he wants to date in possession of all the facts.“Okay, so I’m going to tell you something deep and dark and personal now, alright? Ready, go: I killed someone.”

Quentin looks stricken, and Eliot looks away. “How? When?”

“I was a teenager. They say magic comes from pain, and well. I’m a very gifted telekinetic,” Eliot says, sardonic, the word _‘gifted’_ tasting bitter in his mouth. “Dragged a school bus over a bully who used to kick the shit out of me, discovered magic is real. There was– a lot of blood.”

“Oh. Shit, El.”

“Yeah.” Eliot swallows, and makes himself look at Quentin. “I’ve never felt as out of control of myself as I did then. And I– I _can’t_ make you bleed, sweetheart, because if I’m that out of control... Then I’m no better than my abusive father.”

“That– sounds like a whole other conversation,” Quentin says, delicately, and Eliot forces out a laugh.

“I think it’s gonna have to be,” he admits, feeling drained of everything in him, right down to his toes. “I’m not sure I can get through it now.”

“Okay,” Quentin scoots the rest of the way forward, until his knees are pressed against Eliot’s side. Eliot wraps his arm around them automatically, listing towards Quentin. “That’s okay. We’ll be careful, make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You still want–”

“Yes, Eliot, I do.” Quentin says, sounding slightly exasperated, eyes going wide and pointed. “Can you believe that I know what I want?”

“I can try,” Eliot agrees, reaching up to touch Quentin’s face again, the edge of his lips, the point of his chin.

Q’s face tips up towards him, asking for a kiss, and Eliot leans in. They lips brush together, just a soft fleeting kiss. Quentin hums a little, rubs their noses together sweetly, and tilts in again for another soft kiss. And another. A series of sweet, soft kisses, and fuck– Eliot loves the rought stuff, he really does. He loves Quentin’s teeth and the way his skin turns red, the way he surrenders control eagerly, happily, openly.

But the thing is– Eliot really likes this too. A series of soft, shallow kisses, his hand on Quentin’s neck, keeping him close.

“We might need to have check-ins about the boyfriend thing, too,” Eliot admits, once there’s air and space enough for breath between them. “I might be bad at it.”

“I’m a lot of work,” Quentin says guiltily, arms sliding back around his knees. “I’ve been informed by many people including my own mother than I am very difficult to– love.”

He trips up on the last word, like he’s not sure of it, afraid of putting words in Eliot’s mouth. “Fuck all those people,” Eliot says bruskly, reaching up to catch a lose strand of Quentin’s hair between his fingers, carefully tuck it behind his ear. “I don’t care what they say.”

“I’m serious, sometimes when I’m in a bad spell– I understand objectively how shitty it is to care about someone who can’t find the motivation to fucking get out of bed. I lash out sometimes, when people are trying to help me. I know I do it so I work on not doing it, but sometimes I can’t help myself–”

“Little Q,” Eliot cuts him off, reaching out to cup his cheeks with both hands. “Don’t talk yourself out of this relationship before we even have new-relationship-sex, okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin breathes out on a soft chuckle. “I’m sorry.”

“No apology needed,” Eliot assures, and when Quentin gives him a pointed look, he nods aquiesently. “I really do like you so fucking much. Even with all your rough parts. You’re just–”

“A brat?”

“–yes, but I like that in a boy.” Quentin dimples at him, and Eliot’s stomach swoops, possibly the first happy-excited feeling he’s gotten from it in days. “Most of you is what I like in a boy.”

“Go figure,” Quentin says, wry. He pushes up for another kiss, which Eliot gives happily, readily. Then he sits back, licking his lips. “I want to take you out first, is that okay? I know you’ve got– your taste are more elaborate than mine, probably, but there’s this place in the city that I found with Julia a couple years ago, and I’ve been wanting to take you for weeks. If that’s okay?”

Always full of surprises, Eliot thinks with a grin, brushing his thumb against the dimple on Quentin’s cheek. “Yeah, Little Q, of course it’s okay. I’m not the boss of you.”

“Oh, El. I kind of think you are.” Quentin’s grinning when he says it, and Eliot can’t help but match it, feel the wide smile spread across his own lips.

“Lucky me,” he murmurs sweetly, leaning in again to steal another kiss, feeling the final traces of reservation leave him. They’re still _them_, even now. Margo’s right, everything else is just about figuring out what works. Pulling back, he prompts,“So tell me about this place you found,” and settles in to listens to his delightful little nerd babble. It might genuinely be one of his favorite things to do, and now he gets undisputed front-row access, indefinitely.

_Lucky me_.

**Author's Note:**

> Content note: Eliot triggers himself by accidentally stepping over his previous stated hard limit during a scene, and has a panic attack and starts to drop because of it. Quentin is able to come out of the scene safely, and helps work Eliot through his difficulties.
> 
> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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